Redundant
by cowbellgalore
Summary: France/England: It takes a horrible woollen jumper for the redundancy  of those three words many people long to hear to become apparent.


**Hastily written for The Scarlet Pimpernel who is taking refuge on the what_the_fruk lj comm... lol his prompt was 'Anniversaries'**

**Fic inspired sort of by 'Redundant' by Green Day**

France looks down with disdain at the woollen jumper England has forced over his head. The jumper, which is horrible shades of blue and red with some sort of disgusting off-white colour in the middle, much resembling a table cloth lightly stained with years of coffee, is scratchy, _burns_ France's bare arms with every little movement.

It takes all his might to grit out a 'thank you', and even more energy to hold in all the scathing comments that want to rip his lips apart and throw themselves at England. It is _their_ anniversary, April the eighth is _their_ day, not just his, so he's _not_ going to complain about the cartoony frog so lovingly knitted right into the middle of the front with - well it can only be described as 'vomit colour', if one had eaten broccoli, peas and grass before throwing up.

The look on England's face, the toothy grin that doesn't remind France of their pirate days, rather their days spent in the pure fields, untouched by man yet, England with less… _full_ eyebrows and head more full of mischief – it makes it much harder to keep his lips zipped. France likes England's mischief, how it's never really left him, but when it overflows into the clothes covering France's person? Oh no, that's when the mischief stops being cute and entertaining. That's when the mischief has gone _too far._

"_Rosbif_." France's voice is tart and England's grin grows in size, ever the rascal. "I… do not wish to complain, but, could you not have chosen more 'delicate' colours? And perhaps, a more comfortable material?"

Shrugging, England fakes a huff, but the overall image he's trying to portray – disappointed, despairing, _lost_ – is completely ruined by that damned smile on his face. Any other day he'd try and wipe it off, but the situation is just _marvellous_ and he simply can't get rid of it. France is stuck in an itchy jumper and there's nothing he can do about it. They'd promised each other years ago, that for one day a year, even if it was only one, they'd at least _try_ to get along.

Competitive as he is, France always takes it seriously. England does too, of course, but it's just so much _fun_ to rile France up, foil his seduction plans, and best of all, _top the bastard when he least expects it_. It's a wonder why France hasn't taken advantage of this promise decades ago. England doesn't complain though, he's not going to look a gift horse, rather 'gift frog' in the mouth.

"I made it myself, frog, so if you can't appreciate it," here, England sighs and the exaggeration makes France _cringe_, "I suppose I'll just have to, I don't know, burn it or something."

"No no no - I'll wear it!" France clutches at the front of his newly acquired jumper, lip jutting out at England questioning his gratefulness and his _honour_ (heaven forbid) or at how the knitted wool chaffs his hands, neither of them are sure.

He surprises himself with the outburst and swallows. Memories of a similar situation many, many years ago with their roles reversed flood his mind and he has the indescribable urge to smile. However, the fact of the matter is that he's stuck in a silly hand-knitted jumper crafted by silly England for what was probably a silly amount of time with a silly frog on the front that is kind of adorable upside down and he feels silly, plain and simple.

The neckline is much too tight, so he pulls at it. England notices. "It'll stretch out."

"I'm sure." - Because France can just imagine how many times the jumper will be pulled over his head in frustration or the much preferred throes of passion.

"You're thinking of something dirty, stupid lech," says England. That stupid grin, that stupid grin that's so childish and that France has grown to lo- tolerate, that's followed England through the years just as closely as France has; it will never leave, will it?

"If it's any consolation, it's about you."

Lips pull over the slightly crooked teeth and England's grin turns into a smug smile. "I'm sure." He fingers the googly crossed eyes of the frog on France's jumper. "Fitting, isn't it?"

France sighs. God he just wants to… hit England, cause him some kind of bodily harm, because he knows this stupid jumper he's wearing that has much too much thought put into it will make an appearance every year, if he doesn't wear it every day of the rest of his God forsaken existence.

He can picture it. He can picture all the colonies laughing at him at Christmas parties, how the rest of Europe will just _die_ when he walks passed, how England will give that wicked grin of his and try to swallow it before someone else catches him and starts asking questions.

"Why this?" France finally asks, gesturing to the offending article snugly keeping his torso warm. Of all the things, a woollen jumper made from the colours of his flag with an ugly frog on the front is that last gift France had expected on their 107th anniversary.

England shrugs, "You needed something warm," and quickly follows it up with another _evil_ grin, "I thought this would be perfect for you."

Again, France wants to punch England (when has he not?) but then something dawns on him.

It is true, his wardrobe is highly fashionable and nice to look at and it always does justice to his _gorgeous_ figure, because his figure is gorgeous and everyone is entirely too jealous to mention it every second – but it's hardly practical most of the time.

England, through the itchy wool and horrible choice of colours, is showing that he cares.

The grin falls off of England's face when he finally sees the realisation on France's own and instead, a genuine smile, not shiny, not wicked, not sarcastic or bitter or sad or smug, but a pure genuine smile manifests itself below England's freckled nose.

He's only seen this particular smile a handful of times, never directed at himself and his heart seizes up at the thought that finally -_ finally, _England is giving it to him. Oh, and there are twenty freckles on England's nose by the way, France has counted. Thrice.

"A simple 'I love you' would have done," says France and this is when England finally sputters, "it would have saved my poor skin. I'll be rubbed raw from this wool!"

"I did not- I mean I do- I mean you're – idiot! You're an idiot!" England thumps his fist against France's chest, it's not a punch, just a thump because a punch would be breaking their promise, and idiot is an affectionate term anyway.

"And so are you, England," France says and returns England's restrained beating with an attack of his own, aimed directly at England's lips.

A moment is allowed, their open mouths pressing together and teeth accidentally knocking before England pulls away and pulls on his mask again. He'll do so for another one hundred and seven years, and another hundred and seven after that.

He walks away in a huff, but not before France can catch the utterance under his breath.

"It's a little redundant anyway."

France laughs and England's face colours at being caught. He stops and swivels suddenly, pointing at France with a scowl. "Your gift better be good or I'm cooking tonight!" Then he stomps into the kitchen and allows the threat to hang in the air.

Any other time, France's blood may have run cold – but the room is so warm and his jumper that he's already growing attached to, God damn, is making him hot.

But he doesn't want to take it off.

He hangs his head in defeat and reprimands his brain for providing England's obligatory comment about how well the French give up in his head.

He thinks that maybe the jumper isn't so bad. It has a lot of charm, and besides the material, England's craftsmanship is exquisite. Oh if only his cooking could be like this – but France realises he's come to accept that too, maybe even… like it a little.

No. That's impossible. He could never _like_ England's cooking. That's like saying he could possibly like being hung upside down over a cliff face by the hair on his legs.

…But even that has some kind of morbid appeal to it.

France shrugs to himself. He doesn't understand it himself, and England probably doesn't either.

But it's true, what England said. 'I love you' is a little redundant. People often ask 'why' you love somebody or 'how' or 'when' it happened.

The answer to 'why' is already written in the past centuries.

The answer to 'when' and 'how', well, even France, for all his talk about the art of love, has no clue.

France shrugs to himself and to the little frog on his jumper. The more he looks at it, the more adorable it becomes.

Much like England, he supposes, and makes his way into the kitchen. Already he can smell the makings of home made chips, the wet smell of potatoes is oddly pleasing to his nostrils. He makes his way behind England who is precise in his peeling, and smells his neck.

"Off, frog." England makes no move to remove France from his person.

"I haven't even given you my gift yet."

"It's probably some sex toy. I'm still cooking."

France tries to subdue England with a kiss to his neck, so England high-fives France's face until he lets go.

France rubs his nose and jabs England in the back in retaliation, before reattaching himself to England's back. "You will burn it."

"I will not."

"Please, just see my gift before you bring out the oil!"

"Fine," England drops the potato back into the sink and wipes his hands off on France's trousers, "only to shut you up."

France drags England back into the living room. England snorts as he watches the other take a small package, tastefully wrapped in much _nicer_ shades of red, blue and white that is actually white and not some horrible tea stained colour paper.

Silently France hands it to England and just as quietly, England unwraps it.

He gapes. For all their time spent doing… whatever they do, England never thinks France can surprise him.

The words are crawling up his throat as he looks up at France, who looks much too sheepish to be comfortable. Three little words work their way up his throat, before he squashes them down and locks them back into his heart. They don't need to be said. They are redundant.

And anyway, just as England is about to say something _nice_ like 'thank you', France has to spoil it.

"I will be topping tonight, _oui_?"

The jumper will last a couple of years and the red hand sprint on France's face will be gone the next morning, but the redundancy of 'I love you', well, for them, it will last a life time.

-

**idk.**

** The reason why it's a 'woollen' jumper is because the traditional anniversary gift for weddings on the seventh year is something 'woollen' or made of wool or something... :| I just imagine England being the hand-made gift kind of guy and no, you don't get to know what France got him because I dunno, I didn't think that far**


End file.
